| In Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave | 
| And wildly around it the winter winds rave; | 
| Small shelter I ween are the ruined walls there | 
| When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare | 
| Once I lay on that sod it lies over Wolfe Tone | 
| And thought how he perished in prison alone | 
| His friends unavenged and his country unfreed | 
| «Oh, bitter,» I said, «is the patriots meed | 
| «For in him the heart of a woman combined | 
| With heroic spirit and a governing mind | 
| A martyr for Ireland, his grave has no stone | 
| His name sheldom named, and his virtues unknown.» | 
| I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread | 
| Of a band who came into the home of the dead; | 
| They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone | 
| And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone | 
| There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave | 
| And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave | 
| And children who thought me hard-hearted, for they | 
| On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play | 
| But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said: | 
| «We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid | 
| And we’re going to raise him a monument, too | 
| A plain one, yet fit for the loyal and true.» | 
| My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand | 
| And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band: | 
| «Sweet, sweet tis to find that such faith can remain | 
| In the cause and the man so long vanquished and slain.» | 
| In Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave | 
| And freely around it let winter winds rave | 
| Far better they suit him the ruin and gloom | 
| Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb |